Sing For Me. Betsy Jiron

I had heard my father say comparing me to my mother.

      “You'll never be shit but a pregnant teenage whore like your mother,” or, “You're an ugly smart ass bitch just like you're mother.” My favorite one was, “Your mother hates you and abandoned you because her friends were more important.” The looks Nancy would give me will forever burn in my brain. Hate pure hate. Her make-up would crack around her mouth and eyes. I never saw her smile at me. The closest she got was that fuckin' smirk when she was finished degrading my mom and me.

      I found myself giving her the same look of disgust when she would eat with mouth wide open, mashing the good behind her teeth. Clearly, my table manners were NOT learned at my father's. To this day, I don't know what it was that made her despise me. This went on for years.

      By the time I was thirteen, I couldn't take it anymore. My mentality had become, “hurt them or hurt yourself.” I had started carving random words on various parts of my body for temporary relief from my emotional distress.

      After everyone had gone to bed and my younger siblings tucked in, I sat myself on my bathroom counter. In one hand, I held a sewing needle, and an alcohol swab in the other. Within a few minutes, I had added four new piercings in my left ear. The physical pain was exhilarating as I watched the blood trickle down my neck and calmly listened to the sound of my own heartbeat. I realized I had found a new comfort from my own mind, an escape from reality.

      The excitement of finding an outlet to my rage was overwhelming and I loved it. The rush I got seeing the veins swell under my skin, from the pain, gave me a sense of power.

      No one knew about my new obsession, especially the Andrews. I couldn't imagine having them look at me with the same look of disgust and disappointment I gave myself.

      My rage and violent tendencies hung like a thousand pound vest I carried daily. The carving, burning and piercing just wasn't enough anymore. Working out, playing sports, or the sight of my own blood calmed the inner fire that was clearly out of control.

      I had prayed to God for years to take me from this hell called life. I was too afraid to talk to anyone out of fear of my father. The punishment I would have received would have been worse than just living.

      “God's Plan” was to ignore me so I took life into my own hands. I was 14 when I attempted suicide. The scars on my body were nothing in comparison to the scars in my heart. The feeling of being a failure had ruined me. My entire soul was cloudy and black. Not even God could save me now.

      For the first time in months, I had been allowed to leave the dungeon called home. I had gone out with a few friends to a house party on the north side of town. I was already on my path of destruction. I wasn't allowed to be on that side of town. It was very poor and my father didn't want me to have anything to do with “those” kids. The entire way across town, all I could think of was death, and how tonight would be the night. The will to die was much stronger than my will to live.

      My friends and I walked into this shack of a house that should have been abandoned years ago. This way of living came as a complete shock to me. It was filthy and reeked of mothballs.

      Everywhere I turned was some sort of alcohol or drug. I grabbed a plastic cup that reminded me of birthdays at the Andrews. I set my guilt aside and started drinking. I had never tasted alcohol before, or had ever been in a liquor store for that matter. It tasted horrible, but I drank everything I could get my hands on.

      The more I drank, the better I felt. I was completely numb. I weighed 100 pounds at most and I knew if I kept guzzling everything I touched, my mission to die would be quick and virtually painless. I remember thinking, “As long as it looks like an accident, no one that actually cared for me would feel guilty for not helping me when I needed it most.”

      Death would have been a much better outcome than what really happened. I should have died but my body had its own plans. I threw up on myself and everything else around me for three days. By the third day, the vomit had turned to blood. Needless to say, not only was I pissed off to still be alive, but also never touched alcohol again.

      I had no choice but to accept this so-called life I had been given and the only way out would be to drown in my own misery.

      I had laid in my hotter than hell waterbed staring up at the ceiling as usual watching the shadows of the passing cars. I was envious of everyone passing me by. How lucky they were to have somewhere else to go.

      The begging and pleading with God had stopped and the conversations we held in my head consisted of unanswered questions instead of death. The tears that streamed from my eyes and into my ears had become routine. I sniffled into my pillow so no one heard me. Night after night, I watched the shadows move across my ceiling and walls. And night after night I cried myself into exhaustion.

      At times, I wondered if my brothers felt the same. Derren paid little to no attention to me. The screaming and fighting between step-monster and me was completely out of control. Not once do I remember a time that I got along with either of them. Derren had hated me his entire life.

      My first sign of permanent sibling rivalry was when Derren pushed me off the Andrews' second story balcony that looked over the driveway. I landed on my hands and knees and walked away with no bruising or broken bones. I was 4 years old.

      Derren wasn't the type of older brother anyone would want. Ruining me emotionally and destroying my reputation was his ultimate goal. Every one of his friends looked at me as if I really was the filthy whore he and the step-monster had labeled me. It was embarrassing to walk the halls at school knowing what the glares from his friends meant, and even worse, the thoughts on their minds. Derren had become my worst enemy growing up.

      Looking back on how hateful and disrespectful Nancy and Derren were, I realize now that I wasn't the only other one to suffer their wrath. My younger brother Max went through the same hell.

      Max was kind and gentle. He was much smaller than everyone his age. However, despite his size and verbal abuse at home, he was by far the most intelligent. Max was the exact opposite of everything my father had produced. I was proud of him for that.

      Max was picked on quite a bit given he was the last of my biological mother and father's children. He wasn't the youngest for long. Nancy and my father gave birth to the family's princess. Marissa.

      Marissa was flawless, dark skinned, big beautiful brown eyes, and my father's dimples. His perfect little clone. I made it my job in my heart to protect her innocence. Hell would have to burn straight through me before I would allow my childhood to repeat itself with her.

      Shortly after Marissa was born, came Niko. He was pasty white with blue eyes. This little boy was hell on wheels. I prayed his attitude would take the negative attention away from me.

      I kept them both very close to me. Marissa and I shared a room where she usually slept curled up right next to me. She was a pacifier baby. She referred to it as a “mepo.” Niko was about 20 feet distance down the hall in the bedroom across from mine. Every little sound that those two made woke me immediately. Protecting them gave me a reason to continue living.

      As toddlers, Marissa and Niko were hilarious. Marissa was always in front of a camera, and Niko was constantly under his mother's skin. I felt a tremendous amount of self-gratification to watch them bicker.

      Bathing and dressing them was my every day responsibility. Niko was always naked. One cold Sunday morning, I had leaned over the balcony overlooking the family room. My initial plan was to tell Niko to come get dressed before I was yelled at. I saw my three-year old brother in front of cartoons wearing a pair of socks. That was it. Only one was on his foot and the other on his penis. I about died laughing. This was his way of, “covering up.”

      I had comforted them both through strep throat, flu's, chicken pox, and random colds. I never received a show of appreciation from dad or the step-monster. It was as so my care was expected as if they were my own kids. I feared the thought of what would happen to them if I weren’t around.

      My happiest childhood memories were with Marissa and Niko. I have to be one with them, playing catch in the back yard, and snuggling during